Thirty-two

“It’s up!”

Spencer’s voice rose above the roar of Earhart middle-schoolers swarming down the hall toward the cafeteria. Spencer leaped above them like a Ping-Pong ball, his arm stretched in the air so we could locate him.

Noah and I followed Spencer’s upraised hand to a mob of kids knotted around the window of the middle school office. And for maybe the first time in his life, Spencer’s rubber-band body and pointy elbows were paying off. He had wormed his way between fellow students till he’d reached the office window.

“Checkmates!” he hollered back to us. “First round we got the Checkmates.”

Noah and I slapped each other a high-five. I’d read Noah’s scouting report. The Checkmates tackled dodgeball like they tackled chess. They were excellent at strategy, but by the time they studied the court, ran through each option in their heads, and settled on their next move, they’d all been pummeled with balls and were sitting in the jail. Game over.

Noah and I pushed forward and finally reached the office window, where Mr. Petrucelli had taped the tournament bracket on the inside, facing out, so the mob could breathe all over the glass without mangling the paper bracket.

I traced my finger across the bracket.

 

 

“If we beat the Checkmates—”

“When,” said Noah.

“Right. When we beat the Checkmates, we’ll face off against either girls’ basketball or the math team in the second round.”

I ran my finger up the bracket till I got to another team: the Backcourt Bombers.

“I imagine the Bombers will win their first two games,” I said.

Here’s where I was hoping Noah would consult the scouting report in his head and give me a reason the Backcourt Bombers would completely lose in the opening round.

Instead he nodded.

“Which means we’ll face Wesley in the championship,” I said.

Noah nodded again.

“We’ll just have to make sure we get that far,” I said.